Who Is Mercy Wild Chapter 6
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Who Is Mercy Wild? Chapter 5 free porn video
WARNING: You must read Chapters 1 through 4 first, or this won't
make any sense at all.
Who Is Mercy Wild? Chapter 5
By Jacquie Windsor
[email protected]
Boadie plodded heavily down the hallway, away from the restricted
area where Brent, Terry and Johnny remained. He hadn't fully
witnessed any of the transformations. He was furious and
confused, seeking answers to questions he had not completely
formulated.
His gait slowed gradually as the hallway stretched in front of
him.
"I've just gotta find those couple idiots that led us up here.
Goddamn the contract. This place is just a little too fucking
weird to make it worth $10,000."
While rage led him from the chamber that sealed miraculously upon
his exit, it was not sustainable as the corridor snaked in a
confounding maze of angles, turns and arched portals. The stone
floor began to feel spongy beneath his feet, the air moist and
heavy, his throat parched, and his lips rubbery and tingling. The
only feeling like it was travelling along a highway through Idaho
after a gig where someone had slipped something into his beer. It
wasn't quite like exhaustion or hallucination, but a combination
of the two.
The floor began to deaden his heavy footsteps. Something glinted
in one the corner of one of the many turns in the hallway. Boadie
approached and stooped to see what it was. A pair of glasses.
"These look like Johnny's," he thought. He picked them up and
continued, hooking the spectacles into the neck of his shirt.
"Why would Johnny's glasses be out here? I thought he was back in
one of the other rooms."
Swinging around to look down the passageway behind him, Boadie's
view was obstructed. The walls and portals seemed to be changing
even as he walked forward, preventing him from returning the way
he came. He wheeled back to the direction he believed would take
him to the owner of the castle.
Subconsciously, the big drummer noticed that the occasional
yellow elephant, carved into the stone on the walls, marked the
way. The haphazard procession led him, twisted, lost, to the same
aperture in the stone that Johnny had peered through when they
entered the castle. Even as the fair-haired keyboardist had
glimpsed a robed man in the far side of the vast hall, Boadie
noticed the same scene.
"I'm back here again. I knew I could find out what was going on.
Those other fucking losers just don't get it."
Boadie stepped through the arched doorway, over which another
Latin phrase proclaimed: "Sed suis quidem magistris alias
probatissimis atque lectissimis didem incliniavit human de
incredulitate duritia..."
As he walked into the room, he shook his head.
"I don't get it. I can read Latin. How the hell did that happen?"
The robed man at the far side of the room closed his book and
turned to watch the American.
"What does it say? I mean, if you are truly able to understand
Latin."
"Oh, something about stubbornness and disbelief."
"Scepticism. It's an official philosophical stance, you know."
Boadie glared at the confident forthrightness of the man in the
robes and armour.
"So who are you? Are you the creep that runs this place? The
one's been fucking with my mind and scaring the Bejeezus out of
us?"
"Are you scared?"
"Not really."
Boadie glanced around. There was nobody else in the large hall.
This regal-looking man was scarcely five and a half feet tall, a
little old and tired looking, and definitely at a disadvantage if
violence became necessary. All that in spite of the armour he
wore.
"So who are you anyhow? Are you the one who's really hired us? I
mean if you did..."
The red-robed man held up his hand to silence the drummer.
"One question at a time is plenty. To answer your first question,
I am 'Stupor Mundi', the Wonder Of The World. Others know me as
the Crimson King."
"Pht-ht-ht," exploded Boadie. "The Wonder Of The Fucking World?
You look like a jerk in a robe to me."
"Stubbornness and disbelief," grinned Stupor Mundi. "You really
are the alpha you think you are. As for hiring you, well, the
contract belongs to the organisation rather than to me. Although,
if you put it simply, I suppose you could believe, even
stubbornly, that I indeed pay your salary."
"Well I thought it was someone called Mercy Wild. Who is that,
then? Who is Mercy Wild?"
Stupor Mundi set his hand on the hilt of a sword hitched onto the
belt holding his robe. Boadie hadn't noticed the weapon before,
when he assessed the strength of this smallish Wonder.
"You are," smiled the Crimson King.
"I am what?"
"You are Mercy Wild."
"Hang on," Boadie began. "That makes no sense. If I am Mercy
Wild, then I hired us. And, I mean, I am a guy, not a chick."
The word 'chick' emerged from his lips in a disorienting chirp. A
change had overwhelmed him.
"The non-believers are always the most stubborn," said Stupor
Mundi. "I ought to know. I wrote the 'Three Impostors', and I am
a thousand times more stubborn than you, Mercy."
Boadie was deeply submerged within his new identity. Powerful and
conscious, yet undeniably female. She heard the soprano voice of
Mercy Wild escape her lips.
"What's the 'Three Impostors'? "
"Just a little tract. The essential premise is simple. All three
major religions are based on deceit. Jesus, Moses and Mohammed
were all frauds. Pretty simple, even for someone like you, to
comprehend."
"What do you mean, 'someone like me'?" asked Mercy. She noticed
that Stupor Mundi was now a little taller than she was. As
Boadie, she was used to looming over everyone, but Mercy Wild
could not have been much more than five feet tall.
"A power slut, to put it mildly," answered the Crimson King. "If
you noticed, too, you still possess all the mindless controlling
ambition that the American has. You are indistinguishable from
him, to me, in many respects."
Mercy felt the Wonder's stare appreciate her figure.
"Come and see how you look, and perhaps more," teased the King.
He held out his hand to grasp Mercy's, nearly pulling her towards
a pool set in the stone floor. It was perhaps five feet across,
elliptical, and shimmered in the combination of torchlight and
natural fading sunlight from the lead-laced windows in the far
wall.
Mercy looked at her reflection. The burly drummer from Idaho was
lost in a petite young woman with flashing eyes and fluffy hair.
She looked almost like a brown-haired Madonna wannabe, with
exotic new wave hooker clothes, a little too much make-up, and
Samantha Fox's ass.
"This is a power slut?" she asked herself. "I look like fucking
Tinkerbell with D-cups."
"Do you like it, Mercy? I know your appearance sure does
something for me. But I'll certainly give that a wait until I'm
sure you completely understand your roles."
"I thought I, Mercy Wild, actually ran some kind of operation. If
I do, then why the hell do I need you?"
"I find your profanity very refreshing," Stupor Mundi explained.
"I would have launched a whole fleet to retrieve a harem full of
girls like you. But you are entitled to know as much as you
need."
The King guided Mercy towards a shadow-glazed wall and pointed at
a huge painting hanging there. The sepia-tinged artwork showed a
battle scene. It looked a little primitive to Mercy, with oar-
driven vessels meeting in a slightly off-perspective panorama of
water, fire, and blood.
"This is Lepanto. It's a naval engagement between the Ottomans
and the so-called Christians. It happened in 1571. Although the
encounter delivered up tens of thousands of slaves, its outcome
was only notable for the prestige it gave to the Austrian duke."
"So you are from 1571?" asked Mercy. She felt a certain naivety
at having to inquire about these details. In her subconscious,
these were things she felt she ought to know already.
"No, but the time-traveller that your other musician friend is
entertaining was born that year."
"Kepler?"
"Yes. I'm from a time long before that. Before the voyages to the
Americas, before the Reformation, before the Crusade against the
Wends, and before the wretch put me in the sixth circle of hell
with the heretics. I am the least heretical man who ever lived."
"But you admitted," Mercy argued, "that you wrote about the
deception of Islam, Judaism and Christianity. How does that make
you not a heretic?"
"The Pope, in my youth, had me live with him in Rome. It was
there I learned that he was an impostor too. I don't know how
many times he fumbled under the cloaks of papal wisdom as I
squirmed on his lap. Yes, Mercy, it's astonishing isn't it?
Popes, grand viziers and rabbis acting as nothing more than men,
grown-ups playing with their toys.
"While they played and pretended, I showed them just how venal
and stupid they were. I captured Jerusalem almost on my own and
without ever engaging the enemy in combat. This is what chained
me to the heretics in that blasted book. When my adopted father
tried to do the same thing, twenty-five years before I was
successful, the Venetians tricked him into capturing
Constantinople instead. They say you should never underestimate a
Sicilian, Mercy dear, and I am a Sicilian."
"What are you hoping to accomplish by this?" Mercy asked. She was
aware of Stupor Mundi's firm hand on one of her shoulders,
creeping slowly across her back like a teenager in a movie
theatre, making the first moves on his date. Still, it felt
comforting; there was a confidence and authority in his words and
actions that she found attractive.
"Not a lot more than what, in fact, has happened. I intend for
slaves to be taken. I also intend to ruin the trading value of
the Venetian florin."
"What's that do?"
"It just makes it a little harder for Venice to bankroll the
Habsburgs. That blasted crowd was only a pouty-lipped mountain
tribe in my heyday. Jethro Bodine and Jed Clampett. Making Ned
Beatty squeal like a pig. Yeah, the Masters Of Europe."
Stupor Mundi mocked the Imperial family whose stamp on European
politics lasted what seemed forever. They had dominated, affected
or created practically every major world event from the creation
of the Dominican Order to the ascendancy of Adolph Hitler. Their
double-headed eagle could even be found nowadays, draped
surreptitiously over crates of memorabilia in the catacombs of
the Kremlin.
"You're kind of cute when you're angry," Mercy said. She drew a
finger across the flushed cheek of the Wonder Of The World.
"However, apart from making love to you--I'd do that in a split
second if you want--I can't find any reason I'd want to have a
part in your sort of crazy plans. I've read enough about time
travel, and shit like that, to know you can't run around changing
the past. Makes everyone nervous or something. It's all Rod
Serling bullshit."
"Oh, Mercy, I assure you that you will participate. You are the
director of those three girls. You wish to be paid, of course,
you mercenary little wench. And I have a further guarantee. Come
with me back to the scrying pool. You'll find me better looking
in the lower light anyhow."
Mercy Wild felt the comfortably challenging tone of the Crimson
King and believed it. There was something fiercely attractive
about this lewd megalomaniac. He replied to each demand as though
he expected it.
The reflection in the pool clouded and shimmered. Amid the murky
fluid, Mercy saw an image form, of a long band of water dividing
two parts of a continent. The image became clearer as a brief
disturbance rippled through the pool. As through an enormous
telescope, the vision zoomed in slowly upon a rocky promontory,
and a red slate town whose docks crept into the sea.
"That is the town of Naupactus," Stupor Mundi said. "The point of
land and the province behind it are called Lepanto, and that
becomes the name of importance."
Mercy Wild shrugged within the Crimson King's tight one-armed
embrace. As the pool focused in, closer and closer, a fleet
appeared, then individual ships, beginning to move slowly in the
harbour.
"That is the Turkish armada," explained the Wonder. "Preparing to
sail. The key to my fortune and, if you will, our plan.
Together."
"I still don't see the point," Mercy answered, "or why you think
I have to go along with this, I mean, other than getting paid."
"There is a distinct urgency about this. The Venetians and
Austrians won, of course, but the terms are not especially earth-
shattering. They'll hold the town for a while but the Turks will
come back. And Venetian pride won't even be damaged by their
failure to follow up on their victory. How many times have they
done that?
"More to the point, however, is that this encounter requires your
immediate participation. I have to get it done before St.
Bartholomew's Day of next year."
"1987?" wondered Mercy.
"No, darling Mercy, 1572."
Stupor Mundi pointed at the pool. The vision was now close enough
to show individual details. A single vessel filled the elliptical
screen. Mercy peered at one figure in particular.
"You recognise her?"
"It--it--looks like Scott!" shouted Mercy.
A frightened girl, with perfect flowing hair and Scott's
distinctive features, stood bound to the mast of the ship.
"What is this?" Mercy demanded. "Did you take Scott and put her
there?"
"Oh no," countered the Crimson King. "All these decisions are
your own. You have your contract with me and are bound, if you'll
excuse the expression, by your own word. And that alone. You will
obviously, however, now find that you have no other option if
this rather fetching and helpless version of Scott is to survive
the engagement. Otherwise I am certain she'll either drown if the
ship is lost, or perhaps find a nice Turkish merchant-pirate to
service in Antakya."
"Don't mock me. I know I signed a contract. I just never thought
you were as deceitful as the impostors you claim to expose."
"But don't you see that I have no reason to proclaim anything
apart from deception? I am not a religious crazy. I am a temporal
potentate, without any claim that I am holier than thou. I've got
to admit, though, that this is nearly the best $10,000 I've ever
spent."
The vision wilted from the scrying pool as Stupor Mundi turned
his attention to Mercy.
"You need some of this, don't you Mercy?" he beamed; caressing
her breast through the flimsy top that scarcely covered her body.
Mercy Wild felt an excitement within her and a desperate need to
satisfy this man.
"God damn it, I want something so bad," she purred.
"You know what I want too," grinned the King. He guided her back
to the throne and sat there, allowing her to face him as his legs
sprawled to either side. "We haven't the time to get me out of
this armour, but I think you can help yourself no matter what."
Mercy whipped off the little jacket and peeled her top over her
head while the Crimson King loosened his robe at the waist. He
was ready for her. His thick cock rose from a tangle of red hair,
and she was instantly on her knees, forming her hand
instinctively around it.
Boadie's consciousness within her switched off completely. This
wasn't for him anyhow. It was for them. Mercy felt enthralled by
the sexual power that came with her body. She felt the meaning of
'power slut' as she ran the tip of her tongue along the shaft and
teasingly rubbed it over her face.
"Mercy, don't tease me," grimaced the King. "Eat it, damn you."
He pulled her onto his cock with a firm hand on the back of her
head. Her mouth was filled with saliva and the pulsing erection
of the excommunicated, power-hungry man. Their gazes met. Hers,
looking up at Hohenstaufen monarch, with a big cock threatening
to gag her, and his, staring delightedly at the slippery lips of
this immodest young thing, coaxing his sperm into her throat.
Mercy was, indeed, at risk of losing her oxygen supply, but she
didn't want the Wonder Of The World to have the satisfaction of
seeing her choke. A single blowjob became a portrait of each
one's mastery of the other.
When he came, Stupor Mundi won the satisfaction of sending his
billowing seed straight down her throat. Her victory came at the
sight of the Crimson King sweating in the throes of orgasm like a
common trick, controlled by lust, notwithstanding his pretensions
to the status of Wonder Of The World.
"Shit, Mercy, you could make a living doing that." He adjusted
his robe and patted some droplets of sweat from his forehead.
Mercy ignored her top that lay on the floor, simply choosing the
little jacket to slip into. She snapped two buttons tightly at
her waist and allowed her full breasts to jiggle barely covered,
the opening showing skin from her neck to her navel.
"At $10,000 a pop, you might have yourself a deal," she laughed.
"I'd love to retire in a year."
"Retirement? It's a shame you're really a corporate director and
a drummer in a band, all at the same time, because the Mercy I
know would never have stooped to do that. Now you start to
understand why I love music."
Stupor Mundi stood up, resuming a more regal posture, and started
towards one corner of the grand hall. Mercy followed him, still
wondering what his final comment meant. She hadn't heard him
discuss his preference for music. There seemed to be something he
expected her to be like, and it wasn't on her knees giving him
head.
"Where are we off to?"
"I'd say to your destiny but, from what I've seen, that wouldn't
be quite accurate. The anterooms are this way."
Mercy followed the King. She expected a long, winding corridor,
of the confusing sort she and the others had witnessed upon entry
into the vast, perplexing castle. Instead, a heavy door led to a
small vestibule, beyond which was the connecting corridor to the
few rooms where the others had remained.
It was as though time had been frozen in the other parts of the
building. Rebekkah and Cynthia, formerly Terry and Johnny,
loitered near the sealed room that Boadie had first stalked from
in search of answers. They turned to see Stupor Mundi and Mercy
Wild.
"Look at you, Boadie," Rebekkah nearly squealed. "You look like
you just swallowed your tongue, or something."
Cynthia, slender and modestly dressed in her floral design robe,
joined Rebekkah in knowing giggling.
"Shit, I don't have cum on my chin or anything, do I?" asked
Mercy.
"No, silly, but I can just tell." Rebekkah looked quizzically at
the Wonder Of The World. "And with this old fart? God, Boadie,
even I can do better than that."
Mercy Wild blushed. "First off, I ain't Boadie. I am Mercy Wild.
And this so-called old fart happens to be the Wonder Of The
World."
"Oh, I'm sure he is," Rebekkah yawned. Her own tryst with the
repentant Suit Man seemed to prove to her that she could fare
much better in attracting men.
"Prattling wenches," Stupor Mundi sighed. "Come, floozies, we
must retrieve Harmony. Then your performance time will be anon."
The Crimson King went to the sealed room and effortlessly glided
through the stone as though it was air. A short time later, both
Kepler and Harmony appeared, frog-marched by the impetuous
Hohenstaufen. If Rebekkah was astonished by Mercy's poor taste in
men, she was appalled at the grey-skinned walking cadaver that
hugged Harmony tightly as they met in the corridor.
"Is that you, Brent? You've got a corpse hanging off your neck,
there, buddy."
"This happens to be Kepler, the magnificent astrologer," cried
Harmony. "He loves to titty fuck. Oh, right, you don't happen to
have nice big ones like me."
"Big enough for the Suit Man," proclaimed Rebekkah. "At least
he's alive."
The competitive chattering of the transformed Gearjammer
irritated Stupor Mundi. He knew that the performance was required
soon, and this distraction, of whose personal taste in men was
best, was irrelevant to his purposes.
"There'll be plenty of time for you women to have your cock-
sucking contests," he announced in a disparaging tone. "Right now
you're under Mercy's direction--and mine, essentially. Mercy will
know where to station you once you're outside. And that's right
out through that door."
A door appeared at one side of the corridor, where there had been
none before. Mercy and her charges were becoming used to these
sudden changes in their environment.
The five, unaccompanied by the Crimson King, left the castle
through the door. Once outside, the gloom of nightfall was no
longer apparent. It was full daylight. The door sealed behind
them, just after the Suit Man emerged.
"Hi Rebekkah," he said. "I hope you know that I would not have
abandoned you to face this on your own."
"Thanks, I appreciate it."
"Girls, over here. Please. Get with it."
Cynthia noticed a cool, comfortable breeze whispering lightly
from the north. She followed Harmony and Rebekkah to a small
triangle of rocks. They were arranged very near to the edge of
the high sea cliff. She looked to the south and there, although
she could not recognise it, was the inexorable approach of the
Ottoman battle fleet, sallying out of the harbour at Naupactus.
Mercy Wild knew what it was already. The time for the
performance, she knew, almost instinctively, was at hand. She
walked over to where Suit Man and Kepler remained.
"You will need these." She drew her hands from her jacket
pockets, holding small balls of wax out to them.
Suit Man and Kepler took the items, each of them darting their
eyes from her earnest face to her body. She knew they were
looking at her breasts, but it not only didn't bother her, it
felt quite good.
"Listen, you drooling idiots, warm these in your hands and
stopper your ears with them." She folded each of their fingers
over the individual balls of wax. "The performance is kind of
private. You can watch, but no listening. Think of it as a lap
dance for the ears."
The three women, arranged on the rocks, waited for Mercy to
return. Harmony and Rebekkah were each nudged by Cynthia, who sat
between them on the rocks. They, too, turned to observe the
approach of the Turks. Mercy returned to see the trio looking at
the water. She decided this was not the time to tell them that
Scott was bound to the mast of one of the vessels.
The fleet had been approaching the island, almost dangerously
close to the pounding surf that roared against the rocks below.
As Mercy felt the time ripen, though, the armada began to turn
away obliquely, setting further out into the Adriatic.
Was something wrong? She felt as though her directions needed
fuel. That fuel was the Wonder Of The World. It wasn't she who
was directing the three women; it was him, vicariously through
her. That feeling grew stronger as the Ottomans veered further
from the island, away from their position on the cliffs.
Cynthia felt the light breeze shift. It was now coming from the
north-west. Now from the west alone. That sent a chill into her.
She looked back at Mercy, who had a furrowed brow, straining as
though to hear something, or to remember something.
At that moment, Mercy looked away from the Turks, whose oar-
driven ships were extending the distance between themselves and
the dangerous Corcyra shoreline.
From the north, as Mercy peered, a second fleet appeared.
"That must be the Austrians," she thought.
The newly arrived fleet manoeuvred quickly in a line taking them
straight south along the Adriatic coast. They approached without
any apparent knowledge of the Turks. Mercy wondered about that
for a moment. From their perch above the cliffs, the group could
not detect a line of scattered mist that lay across the sea,
effectively concealing the Turks and even the dangers of passing
too close to Corcyra.
"Rebekkah. Cynthia. Harmony. Are you prepared to perform?" asked
Mercy Wild. She pointed at the rapidly closing Christian fleet.
"That way. Clear your throats and sing, girls. Sing for our sake,
for the sake of $10,000, for our dear friend Scott, and for all
the men the world."
Kepler and the Suit Man had completely stopped their ears with
the wax. This saved their lives.
The performance, for which they had been paid so well, was the
ancient seafarers' curse of the Siren. Loud, obnoxious, and, more
than anything, compelling. Luring the unready Christians closer
to the shoreline. Closer than they wanted to be.
"It was the Christians you meant to defeat the whole time, Stupor
Mundi," Mercy swore under her breath. She knew he could hear her.
"You are a bastard heretic after all. I should have known. You're
going to wreck everything, aren't you?"
Mercy stepped closer to observe the Austrians and Venetians
below. As the Siren song screeched from three fresh throats, the
Christian ships veered onto the shoals and sea-pounded rocks far
below. Wood and human bone splintered in unison as the song
pierced the air. Those who dove into the sea to escape the sonic
fury were drowned in minutes, weighed into the depths by the
armour that was meant to protect them.
A single priest aboard the Duke's flagship, steeled against this
heresy by faith and allegiance, looked up, pointed, and shouted
unheard oaths. The Siren song betrayed this one of the few souls
sufficiently diligent to perceive the danger. The oarsmen of the
battleship drove it directly into a white-capped swell that broke
upon a giant point of rock, splitting its keel. The deck, solid
ground one moment before, disintegrated into a pile of lumber
that dropped into the sea, along with the faithful priest who
surfaced only once before a second swell drove a piece of timber
through his skull.
When the last Christian boat vanished into the foam, as
completely erased from view as the monster that had broken the
lid of Kepler's sarcophagus, Mercy Wild raised her hand,
automatically, to silence the Sirens.
The contract had been fulfilled.
---
[email protected]
One more chapter to reveal all! Please stay tuned. I intend to
post the complete story within a month...
Alessandra
- 14.08.2022
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